


Concerning Fred

by gracieluu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Acceptance, Canon Death, Comfort, Death, Family, Gen, Grief, Hurt, Post-Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3987484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracieluu/pseuds/gracieluu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For not the first time in his life, George Weasley felt like he was the only one in his family who had the right idea about Fred</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arthur

Arthur Weasley had always considered himself to be a very level-headed and even-tempered man. All of his six older brothers had made fun of him for it when he was younger, but he had never seemed to mind. It was not a bad thing to have a control of one's anger. It had served him well more times than he cared to count or admit. Molly loved him for it. It had awarded him well at work. He had more friends when he was at Hogwarts than any of his brothers because of his calm, concise, and cool self-control.

He had always had control.

It was an odd feeling for him, one that bubbled up from the deepest part of his gut to the tips of his ears, to experience. The anger filled him up so thoroughly he thought it might kill him. He saw more red than in his family's hair. It blurred his vision and coated his entire being. He felt hatred. He felt malice. He felt red. There was nothing he was certain he was feeling anymore besides unbridled and unchecked anger.

He had not control over his emotions for the first time in his life.

Arthur supposed it was normal to be feeling those sorts of things.

He had heard that anger was part of the grieving process. He had heard that throwing things was normal for one that was in pain. He had never put much stock in those sorts of things. He was Arthur Weasely; anger was not something he allowed or felt very often. It was so rare; he found he wasn't very apt at identifying it. He had felt off, at first. He couldn't look at his sons face without feeling the sickly anger that seemed to consume his thoughts. He shouldn't have been angry. Fred was dead. He should not have been angry. He should not have wanted to hit things. It felt wrong, in his mind, to be feeling those sorts of things. Everyone else seemed to have a grasp with how to deal with their emotions. They cried like normal grievers.

He did not cry.

He did not weep.

He felt angry.

It had come upon him so suddenly he almost fell over in his spot in the Great Hall. It trolled up and down his spine, twisting his stomach and burning his brain.

He missed Fred. He had always thought he would be there, sneakily smiling at something with his twin brother. Arthur had always thought he would be coming home for Christmas diner. He assumed he would bring home little red-headed twins, little devils like George and him. He had assumed all sorts of things about the older twin. Molly used to talk about it when they were lying in bed at night. She liked to guess the names. Arthur liked to humor her.

They wouldn't be able to do those sorts of things anymore and that made Arthur incredibly angry.

His hands felt like they were perpetually clenched in anger. He didn't like to think that what he thought about himself his entire life was false. He, apparently, wasn't as calm as he had imagined and fashioned himself to be.

He supposed he should have had practice dealing with his anger.

It wouldn't have confused him so much if he had. He didn't like feeling that way. He didn't like that his insides felt like they were clenching up all the time. It was painfully uncomfortable. He was certain he would never want to feel this way again.

Of course, he would take the anger a million times over if that meant Fred would still be with them.

He did not feel like he was bargaining. It was a simple truth. Arthur Weasely would have taken his son's place in a heartbeat. He would have felt the anger for the rest of his life, never ending, never ceasing, if it meant Fred would still be with them, smiling and laughing. He kept those thoughts to himself. He didn't want to upset his Molly any more than she already was. She would look even more pained if he told her that. He wasn't sure if he would be able to stand it if she looked more hurt.

He resigned himself, after several long moments of staring at his son that looked like the one he had just lost, that he would keep the anger all to himself. He would keep it until it finally simmered down to a manageable level. He imagined it would abide eventually.

All these sorts of things came to an end eventually.

He knew he would never stop wishing it was him in his son's place, however.

Arthur knew he wouldn't stop feeling angry anytime soon. He supposed it was payback, of sorts, for all those blissful years he had had of not feeling any sort of heated feelings. Perhaps they had built up to that point, waiting to spill over at time in which he couldn't hold onto them anymore. Arthur had always wondered what it was like to be so angry it hurt. He wished he hadn't wondered. It was nothing one should wish for. He wished he could take it all back.

He wished he could have taken Fred's place.

He wished Fred could come back.


	2. Percy

Percy used to thing that here was nothing about death that wasn't logical. Nobody could truly avoid death. Some had tired, more had failed. It was inevitable. It waited, watching, pondering the best way to come. It always came. Logically, Percy Weasley knew that everybody had to die at some point in their lives. It was the way of life. People died. Logically, he knew that he was going to lose people; he knew he was going to lose members of his family eventually.

He had not expected for it to happen so soon, however.

He remembered very clearly the day his grandmother had died. He had been young, only about seven, and hardly understood what was happening. He remembered his mother crying, which he had only seen a few time in his short life, and hugging him. His grandmother, or Nan Nan, had been old. He had been sad. He did not like to see his mother so upset. He hardly knew his Nan Nan, but he still loved her all the same. Even at the young age of seven he had told himself that it was okay that his Nan Nan had died, because, logically speaking, everybody died eventually. It made him less sad, he had discovered, to think that it wasn't just him and his family that was suffering. Everybody lost somebody. It wasn't just him.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to lose someone. It had been so long since his Nan Nan had died, Percy found he had completely forgotten the pain. He had rationalized it to the point that he separated himself from his feelings of sadness.

He couldn't rationalize what happened to Fred. It wasn't logical.

Percy, for all his intelligence and quick wit couldn't seem to think and postulate a reason for why Fred died. It made no sense to him.

He wasn't sure if anything would every make sense to him.

He went through what happened more times than he could count. He saw it happening a million times over. He couldn't sleep without seeing him. Fred smiled at him in his dreams. He smiled at him like he had been the last time. That smile, one that was burned into Percy's mind, would be there forever; haunting him, reminding him.

Most people didn't notice that Fred and George had different smiles. Percy noticed, of course. He noticed everything. He had often thought he should have been sorted into Ravenclaw. He didn't think of himself as particularly brave, as evidenced by the way he handled Fred. He should have been able to put on a brave face. He should have been able to hold and comfort his mother like she had done for him when Nan Nan died. He couldn't. All Percy could do was think. He tried to think of why it might have happened at first. He tried to think of why, or what, they might have done to warrant such a thing. He had always told himself that there was always a reason. His Nan Nan had been ancient. Fred was barely nineteen. He had had so much to do, so much to offer. Percy didn't really see why it should have been Fred's time to go.

It had taken Percy some time to come to terms with the fact that logic had nothing to do with what had happened.

That made him happy. He loved logic. He did not like to think that one of his favorite things would have had anything to do with his younger brother's death.

At least that was something.

Percy had never felt so confused and stupid in his entire life. He was normally so in control of his mind and its processes. He was meticulous. He was thorough. He was foolishly proud of how smart and logical he had always been.

It did him very little good when he imagined he needed it the most, however.

His smarts and logic did him very little good when trying to deal with the horrendous death of his younger brother. It did nothing for him when trying to be there for his family. He did not know how to hold his mother and tell her that it would be okay. It wouldn't be okay.

How could it be?

Percy, for the first time in his life, had no answer. He had no words, no jewels of wisdom, no offerings of solutions. There was no answer besides the one that none of them wanted to say out loud. Fred had died fighting the Death was no other way to reason it. He had died fighting for something he believed in. Percy didn't think he should have been there in the first place. He and George should have been at their joke shop, planning ways to make people happy.

That was what they were good at; making people forget their problems and smile.

Percy had never been able to do that. He was too dry, too uptight, too logical.

He wouldn't be able to make people smile after all that had happened. Fred would have been able to. Fred would have been able to help people move on from the terror of Voldemort. He would have been able do something that no one else could.

Percy had always used to scoff at the ideas the twins came up with. It wasn't a logical source of income in his mind. He hadn't been able to see the merit, at the time, of a joke shop when there was real work to be done.

He hated that he ever thought that, now that he truly understood.

What good was logic, anyway? He didn't real think it was all it was cracked up to be. It had been his crutch, his source of power. He couldn't help but disdain it.

There was no logic in Fred's death.

It should have been Percy. It should have been him. He had been there, when it happened. He had been the one to see him. He had been the one that was supposed to protect him. He was the older brother after all. He knew, from the moment it happened, that it should have been him. Percy couldn't make people smile the way Fred had been able to. He couldn't make them laugh. He couldn't make them happy. The world needed Fred and George in the times they were in. They didn't need Percy. They didn't need him.

They needed Fred.


	3. Molly

_You should stop making them._

_It isn't normal._

_It isn't healthy._

Molly looked down at her hands, realizing for the first time that the voices in her mind were her own admonishing herself for her actions. The maroon yarn was wrapped around her fingers and around her needles, cutting across her shaking hands. It had been the only color of yarn she had looked at in the past couple of months. It was the only color she could seem to focus on.

Molly glanced around her, feeling her hands shaking even more. The room seemed less comforting than it used to. It seemed less like she was home. It was a ridiculous, notion, she knew, but the thoughts filled up her muddled mind all the same. The Burrow hadn't felt the same ever since. Nothing had felt the same.

Molly Weasley had felt like this before. When Fabian and Gideon had died, she had felt as if her entire world was crashing down around her. She had felt like her insides were being ripped out of her body constantly. She hadn't been able to think straight after they had died. She hadn't been able to sleep, hadn't been able to eat. Fabian and Gideon were her favorites. She felt no shame in admitting that. She loved them, before she had met Arthur and had children, more than anything else in the entire world. They were everything, and when they had died, she felt like she was left with nothing.

It was worse without Fred.

Everything was worse.

She stood up from her stool by the fire, clutching her knitting to her body as she moved towards the large family clock on the wall of the kitchen. Tears pricked at her eyes, spilling over her gaunt cheeks as she moved closer to the clock. His face was still on it, pointed to the place she never wanted to see. He was still smiling in his picture, laughing at something that none of them would ever know about.

She had looked at that clock every day. She still refused to accept it. How could she? How could she accept her child was no longer with her, needing her, hugging her, loving her? How could she accept that he wasn't there giving her fits with his twin brother? How could she accept he was gone?

Molly had forgotten what it was like in the Weasley family without Fred. He made it complete. He was a piece to the whole. Molly cried to herself, clutching the knitting up to her face, mushing it against her cheeks and nose, when she realized that they wouldn't be whole ever again. They were incomplete without him.

Molly knew it was wrong of her to think that he could still be there. She had buried him in the ground. She had kissed his cheek for the last time. She had seen it. She had had to bury her child.

She shouldn't have had to bury her Fred.

It seemed too cruel to be real.

_You shouldn't keep making them._

She knew her mind had the right idea about the sweaters. She shouldn't keep making them. No one would ever wear them. They made George sad to look at. They made everyone sad to look at. She glanced down at her hands, seeing the beginning of a curly 'F' forming on the front of the half made sweater. She thought it was mocking her, laughing at her. No one would wear that sweater. It would sit in her cabinet, making her heart ache more with each passing day.

_It isn't fair to keep making them._

It wasn't fair to herself or anyone else to keep making them. She knew that from the moment she accidently made the first one. It had been subconscious. She wouldn't have ever done that on purpose. What sort of person made a sweater for someone who would never wear it?

She clutched the sweater to her face, breathing deeply as she cried.

Molly shouldn't have had to say goodbye to Fred. He was her baby, her beautiful red-haired baby. She had loved him from the moment she had first found out she was pregnant with the twins. She had loved him even when he was being a handful. She had loved him when he failed his owls. She had loved him when he dropped out of school. She had loved him when he opened the joke shop with George. She had loved him when he fought in the Battle for Hogwarts. She had loved him for everything he did.

She had loved him.

She still loved him.

She knew it was selfish of her to wish that she could switch places with him. She had other children that needed her. She knew that, yet Molly couldn't stop herself form wishing that she could bring him back any way possible, even if that meant switching places with him.

She just wished she could make it better. She wished she could mend it like she mended and made her children's sweaters every year for Christmas. Molly wished she could fix it, like every mother was supposed to be able to. She couldn't fix it, however. Molly cried even harder into the sweater at the thought.

The clock struck loudly, making Molly jump from her spot in the middle of the room. The half-made sweater in her hand fell to the ground in a heap, her needle clacking as they were still attached. It was half-past six. Her family would be coming for dinner soon. They would see the sweater. They would see it and know. She bent down low over the sweater, picking it up with the gentle hands. The 'F' was still there. She wiped it clean, running her fingers over the edges of the letter. It really wasn't fair, she saw, to keep making them. It wasn't fair to herself and it wasn't fair to George. She imagined it made him feel worse than she did. She pulled out her wand slowly, tears streaming down her face. It really wasn't fair, none of it. She waved her wand over the 'F', crying even harder when it changed to a 'G'.

Molly realized she hadn't been fair to herself, with making those sweaters.

They wouldn't bring her Fred back to her, as much as she wished it would. They wouldn't make her happier. She knew that.

She hadn't been fair to herself and the rest of her family. She still had them and for that she was eternally grateful. She was certain she would have withered up into nothing if she hadn't had them, if she hadn't had George. Sweet and strong George, how selfish she had been in regards to him. She still had him, she still had him to love and to care for and to cherish share in the joy of Fred with.

She still had George.

She still had the rest of them. She supposed was fortunate in that sense. She wasn't alone, even though she felt like she was.

She still had the Weasleys.


	4. Ginny

Ginny paused hovering in the middle of the practice quidditch pitch that had been behind her house for as long as she could remember. The grass had always been a bit longer than regulation and the goals were little more than rings they had found in a trash heap. There were no lines on the ground, nor were there any places for people to sit apart from ramshackle chairs that had no backs. It was mediocre, at best, but Ginny had always found she loved it more than the professionally pitches she had played on.

It was their pitch. She liked how shabby it was. It was just like everything else. It was her family, and she loved that.

The wind bit at her face, cutting across so roughly it made her wince. Her eyes burned as she took in the pitch. They watered violently as she took note of the permanently burned spot in the grass from when Bill had tried to get Charlie to stop teasing her so much. They stung as she looked at the bile of rocks she had artfully pulled together in the hopes of making it look like a stadium for her older brothers. It hadn't, but that had smiled at her four year old effort any way. She blinked back the moisture the wind was causing as she noticed the banners she and her mum had knitted one year as a gift to Ron when they found out he made the house team.

Her broom dipped a little bit involuntarily when she saw the sign that Fred and George had erected.

" _There's too many of us Weasleys to ever be considered measly!"_

It wasn't very clever, she had to admit, but it still made her insides lighten up considerably. She caught herself smiling until she truly thought about what she was looking at.

The sides of the sign had crinkled up, the colors had faded, and the seams were fraying in every single place she could see. It was flapping in the wind, making little sounds as it snapped back and forth. It looked so sad, sitting there in low lighting of early evening. She imagined time did that sort of thing. It was inevitable.

The wind blistered her eyes even more, making the moisture spill out over her cheeks.

Her palms ran dry as she gripped the handle of her broom. It wasn't the nicest one she owned, nor was it the fastest, or the flashiest. She liked it more than any of the others she owned, however. It was Fred's old broom and that made it better than anything she could ever buy, make, or steal. She had been flying on it since the twins had donated it, rather generously when she had expressed an interest in learning to fly and play quidditch.

She dipped a little further, her eyes watering worse than before.

She was a bit ashamed by how wobbly her broom was. Her hands shook violently as she looked at the sign. She could just see the twins painting it. Their mother had made them do it themselves, the muggle way. The paint had ended up on the ceiling, Ginny remembered vividly.

She glanced down at her hands, taking note of the nail marks in the broom Fred had left behind.

They were little crescent shapes that littered the handle. She knew it was a bad habit of his.

A bad habit he _had_ she corrected herself with a shake of her head.

Ginny knew it was a bad idea to come out here alone. The thoughts were always the worst when she was alone. Everything she saw reminded her of Fred. Everything she encountered reminded her, made her think, and made her feel things that stomach turn to ice.

Ginny cried out loud when he broom dipped even further, sending her tumbling to the ground in a pitiful heap. Her hair was covered in grass and she pulled herself into a ball in one of the taller patches of grass. The tall strands tickled her skin, prickled her nose and poked her cheeks. The watering in her eyes, which she was able to identify properly as pain filled tears, covered her face.

She just felt so sad. It filled her up almost constantly.

Harry understood. He felt the same way she imagined, but she couldn't seem to find it in herself to talk to him about it. She didn't want him to feel like she was blaming him; like she was burdening him. She resigned herself to keep her pain to herself. It seemed easier that way.

Of course, nothing was easy about losing Fred.

Ginny considered herself to be a very intelligent person. She felt stupid right then. She had felt stupid since Fred had died. She felt stupid that she hadn't been able to do something about it. She felt stupid for not being able to save him. She felt stupid for how little control she had over herself.

She felt her sadness filling her up as she lay in the grass clutching her brother's broom to her chest.

Ginny knew no matter what she said, thought, or did she couldn't bring him back.

Stupidly, she tried to bargain for it anyway. She would give anything to bring him back. She would have traded places with him, she imagined. He seemed to offer so much more. He made people happy. She imagined more people missed him. She cried even harder into the grass. She thought she would surely die from the sadness at some point. It seemed never ending. She cried more than anyone else in her family. Ginny had always been emotional, she could admit, but she knew this display took it to a whole new level.

Everything made her sad.

If Fred was there, she wouldn't be sad. She would be happy. Happier.

She curled into herself, resigning to the fact that she knew she would be crying for the rest of the night and the foreseeable future.


	5. Charlie

Charlie Weasley couldn't look at his dragons. He was ashamed to admit, and he didn't admit to things of that nature very often, but he was truly scared for the first time in his life of the dragons he had once found comfort in. They unnerved him to look at; made him feel like at any moment they were going to snap and eat him up in one chunk. They made his insides feel like they were melting, like he was about to drown in the air around him without being able to stop it.

Charlie had not anticipated that sort of reaction to his death.

Charlie looked down at his hands, suddenly feeling very ashamed of the burns that littered them. There were three new ones, each puckered and angry looking along the tops of his hands and along his wrists. Those burns had broken his streak. Before he had gotten them, before everything went bad, Charlie had gone seven months without getting burned.

That had been the longest he had ever gone.

It was all different now, in his life after.

He shook his hands, moving his gaze away from the painful reminders that scattered his skin. He hadn't been able to focus when he had gotten them. His mind had been wandering, like it always seemed to be doing nowadays, when the group of hatchlings he had been working with burned his hands. Charlie had hoped no one would notice.

They did.

It was his mother who noticed first, followed by his father the rest of his siblings, and lastly George.

They all asked him why, and how, and when. Charlie lied to them, of course.

How could he tell them that he had been too distracted by his own grief? How could he tell them that he cared very little for his own safety? He wasn't sure his mother could handle that sort of knowledge. He imagined she lock him in his room until she was certain he had his head on straight. The thing was, and Charlie kept this information buried so deep he was evens sure he could admit it to himself, that he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to keep his head on straight.

Fred was his little brother. His responsibility.

He was supposed to be able to watch him, protect him. It was his job, being one of the oldest. Bill had Fleur to look out for. Charlie felt it was his job, considering. Bill was the oldest, but Charlie was the strongest. He was the one who was supposed to keep them out of harms way. His siblings needed him in those terrible times. They needed him and he let them down.

Fred had needed him.

He had needed him and he let him down.

Charlie squeezed his hands together, feeling the burns tightening painfully. He dug his fingers into the raw skin on his palms, leaving behind painful marks on the already injured skin. Charlie didn't mind the burns so much. He supposed he deserved them. They were a punishment, of sorts, for not being able to help his little brother.

Charlie would gladly take a million more burns if it meant Fred could come back.

He would have done anything to get him back.

He knew the family needed Fred. They just weren't the same without him. George wasn't the same without him. Charlie knew he wouldn't ever be the same without him. They were like two halves of the same person. Charlie wasn't stupid. He could see how depressed his little brother was. It wasn't just Fred who died, a little bit of George did as well.

Charlie would have traded places with Fred, if it came down to it.

They would all be better off if they still had Fred. George would be better off. His mum wouldn't be crying so much. They would all be happier with Fred.

Charlie glanced down at his hands once more, eyes raking over the burns for what felt like the hundredth time. They would be there for the rest of his life. Fred would be too, in a way, Charlie imagined. Fred would be with him, haunting him and reminding him that it was his job to keep him safe and he had failed. It was his job to make sure that nothing bad happened to his younger siblings and he failed.

He failed him.

That was something Charlie wasn't sure he would ever be able to stomach.


	6. Bill

Fleur was smiling that smile at him again. Smiling was not out of the norm, but Bill found it to be slightly eerie and annoying all the same. She had been smiling at him like that ever, well, ever since it all went downhill. He noticed, after many long hours of self-reflective thinking, that she only did it when he was feeling, looking, and acting particularly moody and depressed about the entire situation.

Bill recalled a time, a time that seemed to have been ages ago rather than just years, when he wasn't nearly as emotionally unstable as he was now.

He blamed the werewolf scratches.

Fleur blamed Fred's death.

Bill glanced at her again, taking note of the large, obviously fake, smile on her pretty face. Her hair was shorter than it had been when Fred died. It brushed along her slender shoulders, making her look much younger. He imagined she cut it off out of mourning. She had always had a soft spot for the twins, even if she wouldn't, or didn't, say so.

Her face faltered slightly as he stared at her.

She wrinkled her nose, blushing slightly at the realization that she had been caught. Bill stared at her for a moment longer, waiting for her to say something, before she nodded her head. She stood up gracefully, folding her slender arms in front of her. She offered him one of her real smiles, the kind of smiles that made his insides squirm and heat up. She leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek before she floated out of the room, leaving him to his own special form of brooding silence.

Bill was used to the silence. It had come to be a common occurrence at Shell Cottage.

He thought, after mulling over the other alternatives, that he preferred the silence. He thought it was better than talking out loud about his problems. He imagined that wouldn't go very well, considering his proclivity for over reacting nowadays.

Bill leaned back into his chair heavily, rubbing his hands along the scratches on his face. They were rough and scratchy against his fingers. It had taken him much longer than he cared to admit to get used to the feel of them. They felt so foreign on his once smooth face. They made him feel much older than he actually was. Of course, he had felt much older than he was for the past year. He thought he was developing wrinkles underneath his scars. Fleur said it was normal, considering the recent occurrences. Bill thought it was a little unfair to consider it normal.

It would never be normal for his little brother to be dead.

Bill had never felt such shame, sadness, and regret in his entire life.

He felt shame for the simple fact that he was the oldest and by that he was the one that was supposed to watch them. He was supposed to be able to keep them out of harm's way, out of the sight of and reach of things that could hurt them. It seemed unfair to him that Fred was taken away so soon. It seemed unfair to him that it was someone who had so much ahead of them was taken away from them all so soon.

He felt sadness that filled him up so much it hurt. He missed Fred. He missed him and he wasn't sure if he would ever stop missing him. It hurt Bill to see his family so sad. They had never felt this kind of pain before. He didn't think they knew how to handle it properly. They were supposed to be the happy family, the one that consoled others but never had to be consoled themselves. His mother was miserable. Bill didn't quite know how to handle that. He didn't quite know how to handle the sadness, if he was being perfectly honest.

The regret was the worst, however. He felt regret for not appreciating Fred more when he was alive. He had always thought that he and George devoted themselves to something that was altogether silly and unproductive. He had thought they should probably consider getting real jobs until he had seen the shop they opened in Diagon Alley. It was brilliant and Bill felt instantly guilty for thinking so bad of it in the first place. He still felt that regret, magnified to the point that it physically pained him to thinking about. He wished he had told Fred how much he meant to him. He wished he had told Fred how much he loved him and valued him as his brother and as his friend.

He wished he would have told him.

Bill scrubbed his scars even harder. Fleur would come back any moment. She never gave him much time when she left. She seemed to think he was liable at any moment to go off the deep end. She hovered and he both loved her and felt great anger at her for it. He never knew what to say to her in these sorts of incidents. He never knew what to say, in general, any more.

Bill couldn't say that he wished he could switch places with Fred. He wouldn't do that to Fleur. She needed him as much as he needed her. Besides, and the thought sent a great wave of excitement rushing through him, Fleur was pregnant. Bill felt his emotions welling up inside himself once again, threatening to get out of control. His brain was starting to fuzz with all of the emotions in his threatening to explode. He tried to get a grip on them. He had to get a grip on them, or else he was sure he would go insane. Bill had had them under control after the attack, but all the new occurrences in his life sent them going haywire once again. Bill had to get them under control for Fleur's sake.

He wished there was some sort of alternative. He was there was a way to bring his little brother back.

He wished there was a way for him to have it both ways. He wished there was a way to bring Fred back while still being able to have his new family. It didn't seem right that he was getting everything he wanted while Fred didn't.

It didn't seem fair that Fred had to be the one to go.

It just didn't seem fair.


	7. Ron

Ron Weasley had been called a lot of names in his lifetime. It started when he was three. His mother had been fond at the time of calling him Ronnie. She cooed it at him whenever he did something she thought was particularly endearing, or when he was being sweet, or when she just felt the need to address him in a manner that showed she loved him. Ron had always disliked that name as he thought it made him sound very young and being younger than others was not something that Ron needed to be reminded of. He was already made painfully aware of it by his brothers and his father and his cousins and just about every person he came across. He didn't like the name Ronnie, he decided. He would much rather be called Ron.

His mother stopped calling him Ronnie as frequently by the time he entered Hogwarts. He would have been thankful if it hadn't been for the fact that as soon as he entered school he was immediately given a new name.

Draco Malfoy seemed to think he was terribly clever in calling Ron 'Weaselbee'. Ron didn't even understand if it was meant to be insulting. He had always thought it was rather mundane in nature, and lacked the cunning that the Slytherins were known for. All in all, Weaselbee had about as much impact on his life as Draco Malfoy did. That is to say, it was nothing more than a slight annoyance in his mind that popped up at the most inconvenient times and in the most inconvenient ways. He had hated it at first, letting it bother him to no end, before he realized that it truly didn't matter what Draco Malfoy called him, because in the end, Draco Malfoy didn't matter to him.

'Won-Won' was an entirely different story. He hated that name. He despised that name. More so than any of the others, he wished that name would have never existed in the first place. It was just plain stupid. It made his skin crawl to think about Lavender calling him that. How could she think that he would like that? He had often wondered if he had given some sort of indication that he was unaware of that he secretly liked being called by mind-numbingly disgusting baby names. Hermione said it was just Lavender being Lavender, but Ron had begun to think that it wasn't other people at all.

There was something about him that made it impossible to call him by his given name.

Professor Slughorn had found it to be particularly challenging. Wenby, Wallenby, Weatherby, and Rupert were among the numerous variations on his name that he had been called by in potions. He imagined it was because Slughorn had never viewed him as being important enough to merit taking the time to remember a name.

Ron shook his head, a slight scowl making its way onto his face as he sat and thought. As Ron sat at the kitchen table he shared with Harry in their London flat, he suddenly remembered a nickname that he had done his absolute best to forget about.

' _Ickle Ronniekins.'_

_Ickle._

_Ronniekins._

Ron could still remember the last time Fred had called him that. He had hated it. He hated himself for hating it, now that he looked back on it. What wouldn't he give to have Fred call him 'Ickle Ronniekins' just one more time? Ron was sure there wasn't anything he wouldn't consider giving up; except Hermione, but she was in a league of entirely her own.

He should have cherished it more. He should have appreciated the fact that Fred and George took the time to think about him. He wondered it Fred was thinking of him now, wherever he was? Ron knew he was thinking of Fred. He thought of him all the time. Ron thought it was unhealthy how much he was thinking about him, but he couldn't help himself.

He missed him.

He missed being called 'Ickle Ronniekins'.

Ron should have appreciated it more. He should have thought about it. Ron wanted to be called 'Ickle Ronniekins' just so he could know Fred was still there, just so he could imagine Fred was back. He shouldn't have gotten so angry at the twins when they called him that. At least they were calling him something. Now they called him nothing because there was no longer a 'they'. It was just George and George didn't really do much name- calling nowadays. He didn't really do much talking in general.

George no longer called him anything but 'Ron' and Ron found he hated it.

He would have switched with him, if he thought it would do any good. He knew it wouldn't, but he still bargained to thin air all the same. He talked to nothing, hoping that it would listen and bring his brother back, or at least, let Fred know how much Ron missed him and loved him. He would have switched places with him, if he could. It was irrational, but Ron couldn't stop himself from thinking it.

Ron just wanted Fred back. That was really all he wanted.

He just wanted to be 'Ickle Ronniekins' again.

_Ickle._

_Ronniekins._

It wasn't too much to ask. It wasn't that hard. He just wanted things to be right again. Things would be right if the twins were making fun of him. He imagined Fred coming back was the only thing that would ever make things right.

The Weasleys would never be right without Fred and Ron hated that more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life.


	8. George

When George looked in the mirror all he could see was Fred.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He saw his missing ear that made him slightly less than Fred first. Then he saw Fred. Or what he always wished would turn out to be Fred one day. It never did, so George kept hoping. He found he was quite used to the disappointment. It filled him up so thoroughly, he often thought it was all he would ever feel again. That and uncontrollable sadness.

His days started out the same. He would wake up and forget that his twin was no longer with him. For those brief moments in the morning he was happy. For those brief moments he could forget that he was only one half of a much better whole. He caught himself looking over like he had thousands and thousands of times to greet his brother only to be made painfully aware, once again, that there was no brother to greet. It was the cruelest sort of vicious cycle George could imagine.

His days preceded to get worse, never failing, after that point. It would be hard for it not to, he imagined.

He sometimes forgot which clothes were his and which had belonged to Fred, resulting in him accidentally wearing them. That always made him want to vomit. George sometimes wished he had the guts to throw away the sweaters with the 'Fs' on them. He couldn't, however. Just like he couldn't stop himself from putting them on and sitting in front of the mirror when he was feeling his absolute worst. He imagined Fred would be ashamed of him for how sappy he was being.

The middle of his days weren't so bad. His family made sure to spend a lot of time with him during that time. They seemed to think he was fragile. He didn't have the courage to tell them just how right they were. He took their presence in with quiet, appreciative silence. George had the inkling that Ginny knew how much he needed them. She had the grace and decency that only Ginny could master to keep that information to herself. He imagined his mum would turn into a blubbering mess of tears if she knew how badly he was hurting.

Dinner was…unpleasant.

There was always a missing spot at the table that made George instantly feel less hungry than he had been. It just didn't seem right to be eating without Fred. It just didn't seem right to be enjoying a meal that Fred had once enjoyed with him.

The worst for George was when he was alone at night. He couldn't sleep even if he wanted to. All he could see was Fred and all he could think about was Fred and all he wanted to do was hug Fred one more time.

George had always thought that he was the worse half of the two of them. How was the worse half supposed to function without the better half? How was one half supposed to even function at all on its own?

The question of what he was supposed to do with himself plagued him almost constantly. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to keep up the joke shop, or just move on and find something that didn't make him so sad. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to stay at home with the rest of his family, missing Fred, or if he was supposed to go somewhere that made him miss his brother less. Nothing seemed to settle his mind. Nothing seemed to fit with what he was supposed to do.

George had never imagined a scenario without Fred. He hadn't been able to fathom it. If he was being honest, he couldn't really fathom it currently.

He tugged at the sleeve of his sweater, feeling the roughness of the yarn rubbing against his wrists. It was well past midnight. Their birthday, or what should have been their birthday. It was just his now. He already knew what he would be wishing for when he blew out the candles on his now unshared cake. He still held onto the foolish hope that one day if he wished hard enough, if he was a good enough person, that Fred would somehow magically reappear. They were wizards after all.

What was the point in having magic if it couldn't help you when you needed it the most?

He had never felt so left down by magic in his entire life. He had been disappointed in it when he and Fred couldn't make food appear when they wanted it too. He had been annoyed with it when it gave him and Fred beards rather than turning them into old men in order to enter The Triwizard Tournament. He had been downright ashamed of it when it had been used by Umbridge to bully children at Hogwarts.

Now, he was just saddened by it.

Fred shouldn't be gone. George should be able to bring him back.

George reached a hand up to his face to wipe away his tears hastily. His mother would have a fit if she saw him crying again. He felt she had seen that from him too much lately. She didn't need to be worried about him when she had all the rest of his siblings to be thinking about. She had happier things to look forward to. Fleur, as he had recently heard, was pregnant. He imagined his mum would be in a tizzy when the baby was born. Her first little Weasley.

He hoped it would be a little hell raiser. Maybe he could teach it to play pranks on his cousins, when they finally came around. Fred would have liked that.

"Happy birthday, Georgie." George looked up hastily at the sound of the voice, wiping even more tears off his face. Ginny smiled down at him, holding a small package close to her chest. Ron appeared behind, looking sleepy and confused as to why he was there. Percy followed in after Ron, pulling in a very tired looking Charlie, followed by a chipper Bill. Bill was always a night owl. "We thought you might like your gifts before Mum gets a hold of you."

George tapped the ground next to him, indicating for Ginny, and the rest of his siblings, to take a seat next to him.

"She's been knitting again." Bill said, folding his long legs underneath him. "This time it's nondescript baby sweaters."

"I'm sure Fleur is thrilled at the idea." Ron offered, checking out of the corner of his eye to see if he was getting George to smile. He wasn't, but George appreciated the effort all the same.

"Fleur is a classy enough lady to accept any gift she is given without making a fuss." Percy supplied, fixing his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Gee Perce, maybe you should have married Fleur." Ginny snorted, reaching behind her to pull the blanket off of George's bed.

Percy glowered at her while simultaneously turning a nice shade of crimson. Bill slapped him on the back before he turned to look at Ginny and Ron. "Where'r Harry and Hermione? I would have thought they would have come with you."

"Hermione is reading." Ginny shrugged her shoulders, leaning into George's side.

"Harry is passed out, mumbling about something or another." Ron added, stifling a yawn. "Now can we move this along?"

"Charming Ron."

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

"While I love all of you, I can't help but wonder why all of you are here." George interrupted his bickering siblings easily.

"We wanted to give you your birthday presents and to tell you that…" Ginny paused, seeming uncomfortable under George's scrutiny. "Well, we wanted to tell you that we love you and are here for you."

George knew that was coming. They had been doing it at every opportunity. He imagined they thought they were doing him favors, but all he felt was that they were pitying him. He hated being pitied. They all shifted under his gaze, glancing back and forth at each other uneasily. It seemed they thought they were being terribly clever and thought he wouldn't figure out the exact reason for why they were visiting him well past midnight.

"Well go on then. Shower me with gifts." George saw no need to upset them as well.

He was upset enough for the lot of them.

Ginny shoved her hastily wrapped box at him first, a smile lighting up her face. "Hermione helped me make them." George unwrapped the paper, feeling slightly apprehensive about what she had given him. He immediately felt all of his apprehension leave him. Inside, folded up neatly, were a pair of brightly colored pocket hankies. "They turned the person who uses them's nose black. I thought you might get a laugh using them on some unsuspecting Slytherins who decide to come into your shop."

"They're brilliant, Gin." He kissed her on the cheek before turning to the gift from Percy.

It was a briefcase that Percy didn't even bother to wrap. "All professionals have a briefcase to hold their financial and operational documents."

George nodded smiling at Percy, as he reached out a hand to clap his brother on the back. He tried, George acknowledged. Percy smiled at him before settling back into a more comfortable position on the floor in front of George's bed.

Bill gave him a new set of shoes for work that, apparently, set off the color of his robes rather nicely. George imagined Fleur picked them out.

Charlie gave him a journal bound in dragon hide. Another attempt by his family to get him to talk about his feelings.

Ron gave him a Chocolate Frog Card, naturally, and an autographed quaffle from George's favorite Cannon's player. For the first time in his life, George had the undeniable urge to kiss his younger brother on the cheek. He repressed the urge, obviously.

They fell into silence after he opened his gifts. It happened every time they were all together. He knew that was why they came home. In addition to the fact that it was his birthday, he knew they came home to make sure he was okay. They came home to make sure he wasn't a depressed blob. Which he was, but he did his best to hide that fact from them. They didn't need to know that he was so depressed he found himself wishing he was anywhere but at home, in their old rooming, looking at all of the stuff they used to share.

"Mum said she's baking you your favorite cake. Raspberry and Cream." Ginny said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Before George could stop himself, he corrected her. "That was Fred's favorite. Mine is carrot."

None of them seemed to know how to respond to that.

"Raspberry and Cream is good too." George said, instantly regretting that he ever said anything at all.

"I'm so sorry, George. I didn't mean…" Ginny looked like she was on the verge of tears. "I wouldn't have sai…"

"Gin, it's okay. I'm okay."

"Liar."

"Shut up, Ron." Charlie delivered a well aim punch to Ron's arm.

"It's okay. We can talk about him." George said, earning surprised faces from all his siblings. "I mean, I can't just pretend like he never existed. We can't just pretend like he never existed."

Ginny was now crying completely. "I just w-w-wish he was here. I miss him. I want him back."

George should have known it would come to that. "Me too Gin."

"I would switch with him if I could." She said suddenly, snot and tears streaming down her face.

"No you wouldn't." George said quite firmly, earning odd looks from all of his siblings. "You wouldn't do that to him. It's cruel. No one should have to experience the pain that we are. You wouldn't put him through that, Gin. You're too good for that. Switching places with Fred would do him no favors. He would be in the same place we all are, missing you and we would miss you and mum would miss you. I want him back more than any of you will ever know, but I wouldn't want him back unless everyone was there. If he could come back spontaneously, I think I would never ask for anything ever again. But that isn't going to happen, as much as I wish it would. No twin should have to live without the other and no one should have to live knowing that their sibling isn't coming back. Fred is too good for that kind of pain. He is too good to spend his life missing people. As unhappy as we are and as much as we want him back, we should never wish to switch places with him because that would cause him sadness that he doesn't need. He is…" George paused, feeling his chest beginning to constrict. "I think he is happy, wherever he is."

George had given Fred a lot of thought over the months. He wanted him back and would always want him back but he had come to his conclusion when he came upon Ginny crying one afternoon on their family quidditch pitch. She had said she would switch places with Fred in a heartbeat because she didn't think it was fair that he didn't get to live when he deserved to so much more than other people. It was in that moment that for not the first time in his life, George Weasley felt like he was the only one in his family who had the right idea about Fred. He was the only one who understood Fred well enough to know that he would never be able to live with himself if a member of their family switched places with him.

They all said they would, but George knew he wouldn't.

Fred would be just as a sad as George was if they switched places and George didn't think he could stomach the thought of that. Fred was happy and at peace and free from pain. Those were the sorts of thoughts that kept George going in the worst of the times.

"Fred is happy. I am sad, but Fred is happy. I wouldn't take that away from him from my own selfish desires."

Ginny wrapped her arms around George's shoulders, squeezing the life out of him. "Fred is happy." She whispered to herself, almost as a way of convincing herself that it was true. "Fred is happy."

"Fred is happy, Gin."

_Fred is happy._

George squeezed Ginny into him tighter, thinking the words over and over again in his mind.

George glanced over his shoulder, making eye-contact with himself in the mirror. When he looked in the mirror he could see Fred but that wasn't all he saw. He saw all his brother had done for him and made for him and shared with him. He saw his other half.

He was constantly filled with sadness, but sometimes, so rare it was almost never, it was the good sort of sadness that made you cry tears of happiness rather than those of sorrow.

_Fred is happy._


End file.
